We were lucky to catch up with Rebecca BRUFF recently and have shared our conversation below.

Rebecca, thanks for joining us, excited to have you contributing your stories and insights. If you could go back in time do you wish you had started your creative career sooner or later?

Sometimes I wish I’d known earlier how satisfying it is to imagine and write, and re-write, and how gratifying it is to be with readers, to have rich and wonderful conversations, to hear that something I wrote or said actually touched someone or made a difference. At the same time, I’m aware that all the years and experiences that came first really shaped and prepared me for what I do now.
When I went to college, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I knew I loved reading and writing, but it really didn’t occur to me that that could be a career path! So – in the service of “effeciency” – I to those placement tests they give, and I placed out of all my English and composition requirements. I placed out of what I loved most. But I didn’t recognize it at the time. I do wish that someone had invited me to think more carefully about that.
A decade later, when I went to seminary, I had to read and write a lot, and it was a sweet re-introduction to my first love!

As always, we appreciate you sharing your insights and we’ve got a few more questions for you, but before we get to all of that can you take a minute to introduce yourself and give our readers some of your back background and context?

In 2013, when my late husband and I lived in Texas, we visited the South Carolina lowcountry. We’d only been married a few months and while Tom had spent time here, it was my first experience. It was brief, but we made time for a tour through the historic district of Beaufort. And that’s when I heard a little bit of the story of a man named Robert Smalls. I’d never heard his name, and I’d never heard the story. But he intrigued me. His courage, and his heroism, and his contributions, and legacy intrigued me. When we finished the tour, we went to one of the local bookstores (by the way, Beaufort has 3 wonderful independent bookstores! How great is that?). I wanted to read more about this man Smalls. We flew home the next day with a biography, a children’s book, and a volume about his legislative life, and I began reading about this remarkable man.
His story ignited my curiosity. Curiosity led to exploration, and exploration led to discovery, and I discovered how little I knew about our history. I discovered how little I understood about the experiences of enslaved people in our country. I discovered that some stories get amplified, while other stories get silenced

I learned that not only did Smalls, who was born enslaved, liberated himself and 15 other people in an epic nail-biter of an escape, but that he became a civic leader, a 5 term US Congressman, and a champion of free and compulsory education – the first of it’s kind in the whole country!

I learned how much I had not learned in school.

To make a long story short, the story of Robert Smalls opened my eyes and my mind and my heart, and moved me across the country because I felt compelled – called – to share his story. We moved to Beaufort so that I could research and write the book, Trouble the Water.

I learned more than history. I learned that some historical stories are amplified, and some are silenced. I learned that the way stories are told, or untold, shape us.

I learned that stories can connect us – and stories can also provoke us and divide us. Because the stories that shape each of us are all a little different – new stories may provoke us to disagreements and arguments. It can be hard for us to let go of the stories we’ve held dear for our entire lives, stories that we think define us – and when a new story comes along – a story that challenges our old ways of thinking and being, it threatens us. Educators call this cognitive dissonance – that collision of what we thought was true in conflict with new evidence that demands we re-examine it. As uncomfortable as that is – that place where our old narrative intersects with a new one – that’s where learning happens. And it’s real learning, learning that matters, learning that sticks.

Stories cultivate our compassion. Stories encourage empathy. Stories help us do that. Stories change our lives. I write. Because I believe in the power of stories.

But that’s not all — I also discovered that this particular story would give me opportunities to invite people into conversations that stretch and challenge us.

When I began writing Trouble the Water, I just wanted to share the story, and I hoped the book would find a publisher and an audience. But I didn’t know that Mr. Smalls would have me stand in front of people and ask that we open ourselves to learning and maybe re-learning some essential aspects of our history. I didn’t know that he would help us to see how things that happened 160 years ago have shaped our current cultural environment and that unless we know how we got here, we won’t be able to navigate to a better future.

So now I have the great privilege – and responsibility – to share the story and the message of Smalls’ life and legacy, and to inspire people to think about their own place in history, their own legacy, and the future we’ll leave for generations who follow us.

I love speaking to all kinds of groups – this is a universally relevant message, and it’s an honor to share it.
And I love speaking to and with writers and aspiring writers. We all have stories to tell. As Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” (I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings)

I hope people will read Trouble the Water. I hope they’ll invite me to speak at their next event. Most of all, I hope we’ll all grow in our capacity to acknowledge and honor the untold and under-told stories of others so that we can build a better stronger healthier human community!

Can you tell us about a time you’ve had to pivot?

Big pivot! For 20+ years I’d been living in the Dallas area, serving as a pastor in some of the countries biggest United Methodist churches. Most of my work was focused on building cross-cultural partnerships, leading groups of people to serve across town or across borders or across oceans. I was teaching, preaching, marrying and burying, and pretty good at this work that stretched my soul in some powerful sacred ways. And then, as I said earlier, in 2013 I heard the story of Robert Smalls. For 3 years, he provoked me, and in 2016 I told my husband I thought I might be called to write a book about this man.
In January 2017, we loaded up the dog and came to Beaufort for what we thought would be a 4-month sabbatical to research and write the story. What could possibly go wrong? Never mind that we’d lose half of our income or that had no idea how to write a novel, much less be published.

Of course, I discovered that I couldn’t write a book in 4 months! And we fell in love with the lowcountry.
The sabbatical expanded to a long leave of absence, I found an incredibly supportive and instructive writing community, and we made Beaufort our new home.

We’d love to hear a story of resilience from your journey.

While we loved Beaufort and everything about the lowcountry, we didn’t know that we’d face some difficult personal journeys. In early 2019, my beautiful and brilliant younger sister died, and in 2020, shortly after we all went into Covid-19 isolation, my father and two wonderful friends died. We knew we weren’t alone in this sad season that affected millions of people. Tom and I were fortunate that we were isolated in a place we loved, with beautiful views and birds to feed, and lots of outdoor space to enjoy. And we loved being together. I’ve often thought about the multitudes of people who were in tragically unhealthy relationships or settings through those long months.

In late 2020, Tom began to have some vague painful GI symptoms and a long hard journey began. In June 2022, this extraordinary man – this vigorous man who could play tennis all day long, this man who redeemed my belief in love and marriage – died from complications of dialysis.

Honestly, It’s too soon to declare myself resilient. Most days are an exercise in endurance. But I’m learning to hold both grief and gratitude, to cherish memories, and to be free with tears.
And I’m learning to hold fast to the stories – the stories of our brief and glorious time together. Every morning, I write a little bit about Tom, about us, about the adventures and misadventures and the ones we never got to.

Resilience? I don’t know. Gratitude, Absolutely. Maybe there’s a connection.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.rebeccabruff.com/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rebeccabruff.author/
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RebeccaBruffAuthor/
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/rebecca-dwight-bruff/